Chapter 129 | I Transmigrated into Cultist Simulator

“No—!”

Ryan’s eyes snapped open as he bolted upright from his desk.

“Hah... hah... hah...”

He panted heavily, his entire body drenched in a cold sweat.

Knock, knock, knock.

A crisp rapping at the door interrupted Ryan’s racing thoughts.

“Ryan? Are you still alive in there?”

Irene’s voice drifted in from the hallway, laced with a hint of concern.

Ryan closed his eyes and took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the dancing golden characters in his mind. When he opened them again, the abnormality in his right eye had receded into the shadows of his messy hair.

He pulled the door open.

Irene stood there holding a tray with a steaming cup of black coffee and a plate of slightly charred toast.

“You haven't come downstairs for three days. My mother thought you’d died in your room and started to mold.”

Irene studied Ryan with a suspicious gaze.

He was huddled in his faded pajamas, his hair a tangled mess, and his eyes shot through with weary red veins.

“Thank you. I just got a bit lost in my books,” Ryan said, offering a reasonably gentle smile as he took the tray.

“You don’t need to push yourself that hard. Get some sleep,” Irene sighed helplessly. “If St. Blaise knew they almost killed a candidate before the term even started, they’d surely feel ashamed.”

Watching Irene close the door and walk away, Ryan took a sip of the coffee. The bitter, warm liquid slid down his throat.

Meanwhile, Simon was in a completely different state of mind.

This man, who was about to head to the Southern Hemisphere, was as excited as a monkey in heat all day long. He had sold off every piece of furniture in London that he couldn’t carry and used the money to buy himself two very respectable new outfits from a tailor.

His greatest joy every day was loudly boasting about the strange stories and anecdotes of New Salem he had heard from sailors.

“My God, Ryan, you’re still living in a place like this? Not moving? Are you sweet on that little girl or something?”

“Hehe, you’re letting it get to your head.”

“Haha, maybe so! But let me tell you, Ryan!”

Simon sat on the edge of Ryan’s bed, gesturing wildly.

“The beaches there are white, the water is crystal clear, and the coconut trees are heavy with fruit. Most importantly, the girls there have healthy, sun-kissed skin like wheat, and their smiles could melt a man’s heart!”

“I’m going there with the title of a liaison officer. After a few years of building seniority, I’ll become the director of the colonial archive. When that happens, I’ll build a big house by the sea, marry a beautiful local girl, and spend my days sunbathing and fishing on the veranda...”

Ryan, his pen flying across the paper as he practiced his English Composition, didn’t even look up as he offered a cold, sarcastic remark.

“The sun in New Salem is indeed powerful. But before you become a director, I suggest you buy a box of sunscreen ointment. Otherwise, I fear you’ll be carried into the colonial morgue with skin necrosis before you even manage to marry a girl.”

“Damn it, Ryan, can’t you be a little kinder to your friend who’s about to set sail?”

Simon rolled his eyes but immediately broke into a wide grin.

...

The holidays vanished in the blink of an eye.

Simon was set to board the ocean liner Adventurer for the Southern Hemisphere the morning after next; on that same morning, Ryan would face his formal entrance exam for the St. Blaise Royal Academy.

On the night before the exam.

Ryan, Simon, and Alvin held one last gathering at a decent tavern.

Away from the noise and the shouting of sailors, the atmosphere was exceptionally quiet. A dim kerosene lamp hung from the ceiling, casting their elongated, overlapping shadows against the mottled walls.

On the table sat a plate of grilled sausages, a few pieces of dark bread, and three frothing mugs of rye beer.

Alvin ate his bread in silence, and even Simon was uncharacteristically quiet, holding his glass and watching the rain outside, which had finally begun to let up.

“That was fast,” Simon muttered to himself.

He turned his face to look at the night outside. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve been in a very long dream. In the dream, there was a massive ship... a very black sea, and some people whose faces I can’t quite remember. It felt like we were in there, experiencing something terrifying together.”

He rubbed his temples irritably and laughed. “But when I wake up, I can’t remember a thing.”

Alvin wiped the grease from his hands and said in a low voice, “I’ve had it too.”

Ryan watched them silently.

“At least we’re all still alive,” Ryan said, raising his glass.

“Right, all still alive.” Simon raised his glass as well. He looked at Ryan, then at Alvin, took a deep breath, and forcibly suppressed the flicker of uncertainty and reluctance in his eyes.

Simon raised his glass high with force.

“To the East End. To this hellhole that brought us together.”

Alvin’s large, steady hand raised his glass and tapped it against Simon’s.

“To staying alive.”

Ryan looked at his two companions, both struggling between the mundane and the extraordinary, and finally raised his glass, speaking softly.

“To the future.”

Clink.

The three heavy mugs collided under the light of the kerosene lamp, making a dull, solid sound.

On this London night where the winter rain was finally ceasing, they drank their final round.

...

The January fog was as heavy as a dirty old veil, clinging clammily to the surface of the water at Pier Three of the River Thames.

The smell of coal smoke, rotten fish, and damp wood rolled through the cold wind.

At seven-thirty in the morning, the massive Adventurer lay quietly in the harbor like an ancient behemoth forged of steel.

“Simon! If you pull the collar of that coat any higher, you’ll look exactly like one of those broke clerks from the West End trying to pretend they’re respectable.”

Alvin leaned against a lamppost on the pier, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his bulky, old padded jacket.

“Stuff it, Alvin. This is pure wool! It cost me a full fifteen shillings!”

Simon tugged at the hem of his coat, looking a bit exasperated. At his feet sat a new cowhide suitcase, a second-class ticket to New Salem with a red stamp dangling from the leather strap.

Whistle—!

The Adventurer began to slowly retract its heavy gangplank. On the deck, the first mate was shouting at late-arriving passengers.

“Alright, brothers, I have to go.”

Simon took a deep breath, the icy air stinging his lungs and making his reddened eyes slightly watery. He clapped Alvin hard on the shoulder, then gave Ryan a fierce hug.

“Ryan, pass that exam. When I’m a director in New Salem and I send a letter to the West End, the envelope better say ‘To Gentleman Ryan of the Royal Academy,’ you hear me?”

“I hear you,” Ryan smiled, patting him on the back.

“I’m off!”

Simon picked up his suitcase and didn't look back, striding toward the giant ship that would take him to the warm Southern Hemisphere.

His figure was soon swallowed by the crowd boarding the vessel. On that distant shore of his fantasies—of brilliant sunshine, white beaches, and coconut groves—what awaited him was perhaps a new beginning, or perhaps just another unfinished dream left behind in the mortal world.